


Ricochet

by rei_c



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Chronic Pain, Gen, Graphic Description, Hurt Stiles, Light Masochism, Nogitsune Effects, Nogitsune Trauma, Post-Nogitsune, The Pack Being Idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-06 23:24:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14067849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: Everything he ishurts, from skin through to marrow, every cell a piece of glass with jagged, bleeding edges, every interaction with the world a cornucopia of torment -- and Peter knows, or has guessed, or can smell it.or,Stiles has been inside of this new body for three weeks and everything hurts all the time.





	Ricochet

Three weeks after playing the most important game of his life, Stiles comes home from Scott's and finds Peter Hale waiting for him in his bedroom. 

"I'm not even surprised, somehow," Stiles says, wincing a little as he drops his backpack to the ground. The strap scrapes down his arm, bag landing close enough to his feet to batter the edge of one ankle, nearly tipping over onto and crushing his toes. He takes two cautious steps to sit on the edge of his bed, carpet fibers like razorblades on the bottom of his feet, perches for a moment as his senses adjust to the new position then relaxes enough to let the mattress take his weight. "Are you hungry? I had food over at Scott's but if you're --"

"Stiles," Peter says, cuts him off. "Don't lie."

Stiles looks over, raises an eyebrow and buries the flash-flare throb he feels at the way his flesh pulls, too new and tight to be comfortable for sarcasm. "Did you hear me lie?"

Peter snorts; the noise sounds strangely dignified coming from Peter. Everything Peter does is refined, contrived, a masterful synchronicity of will and action. Stiles thinks that Peter probably _shits_ elegantly. "No," he says, "but only because you're as good at lying as the fae. How young were you when you trained yourself into half-truths?"

"Young enough," Stiles mutters. "It's a habit. And I'm not apologizing."

"I wouldn't expect you to," Peter says. He reaches out, then, hand hovering over Stiles' thigh. "Let me help, Stiles. Let me take away some of your pain."

Everything he is _hurts_ , from skin through to marrow, every cell a piece of glass with jagged, bleeding edges, every interaction with the world a cornucopia of torment -- and Peter knows, or has guessed, or can smell it. The others haven't; even if they had, they would have automatically reached out to him, taken what he's feeling without asking, invaded his misery like it's their own, not his, every time the agony ricochets through him. Yes, it hurts, but it means something. Every moment of suffering is a reminder that he survived, that he's alive, that he's still -- for the most part -- himself. Every ounce of torture is penance.

They would take that away without a pause -- but Peter understands. And he asks permission. 

Of course he does.

Stiles holds Peters gaze, eventually says, "Please."

It only takes a couple minutes for Peter to say, "You have -- an extreme pain tolerance, Stiles." 

"So do you," Stiles replies, because Peter's still touching him, still drawing the venomous ache of being _alive_ from Stiles, and there's no sign of the anguish Peter's taking other than a clenched jaw and lupine eyes. Peter glances at him, just looks, and Stiles gives in. "I've always been a klutz. Broken toes, broken fingers, broken noses, sprained ankles, concussions. I fell out of a tree when I was six and broke my leg in three places, shattered my wrist playing softball when I was nine. Did my cheekbone, jaw, collarbone, and the wrist again in a car accident a couple years ago. I'm still in high school and I ache when the weather changes." He stops there, inhales deeply, feels the air catch in his nostrils and on the back of his throat, every breath the feel of thorns scraping delicate flesh. "Used to, anyway. Guess I should thank the nogitsune for that. No scars on this body. Don't know how they're going to explain all the old x-rays, though. Think Melissa can do something about that or do you think it'd be cleaner to have someone hack in and just delete all the records?" 

" _Stiles_ ," Peter says. 

Stiles shuts up, lets his head drop and feels the muscles in his neck and back pull like he's dislocated them. "Sorry," he says, mutters. "Does it feel like this when you heal?"

Peter hums, looks thoughtful when Stiles glances back up, trying to come up with the right words underneath the pain he's _still_ drawing out. Stiles shifts, an unspoken cue for Peter to stop touching him, an implicit acknowledgment that Peter can stop whenever he wants. Peter merely holds on tighter. 

"It doesn't hurt," Peter eventually says. "It's more of an ache, really; some of the bitten wolves liken it to the way you'd feel pressing on a bruise when it's almost healed. The initial injury hurts, of course, but the healing accelerates the natural recovery process -- including the easing of pain. But, Stiles, even after the fire, I never felt like this. This is -- relentless." 

Stiles flinches, panics, heart skipping a beat. He knows Peter hears it, smells it on him, but he doesn't care because -- it's been three weeks and nothing's changed, there's no progress, what if -- it's not his body, it's not his, what if it belongs to -- what if the -- relentless, yeah, that was the -- _what if_ \--

His hands erupt in agony, sheer mindless torture, and the blinding pain is enough to center him, enough to derail him from having a panic attack that his lungs are simply not capable of handling.

"I'm good," he says, gasping, heart rearing up and trying to rend its way though ribs and muscle and flesh with every beat. "Fine. I'm fine."

"You're nothing of the sort," Peter says. "Please don't lie to me. I hate it when people lie to me."

"People," Stiles asks, "or me? Because I've seen you when --"

Peter squeezes Stiles' hands again, prompting lightning to scurry from the tips of Stiles' fingers down his spine, gathering a crescendo as it goes and striking through every inch of his body. Stiles sinks into it, embraces it, he's alive, he's alive, but Peter flinches, breathes out, "My turn to apologize," like he's about to vomit.

Stiles shakes his hands out, goes light-headed and then nearly blacks out when the dizziness turns visceral in his belly. It's happened a dozen times today, a hundred this week, and he's tired, he's so fucking tired.

"It's all right," Stiles finally tells Peter. 

The touch Peter gives him, a trail of fingers down Stiles' cheek, curls across his skin with all the delicacy of a whip. "Dear heart," Peter murmurs, "it's really not."


End file.
